


hey you, weren't we cousins

by isweetmochaa



Category: The Property of Hate
Genre: Gen, also suicide is mentioned, dial is a pissboy but he still needs a hug, hero is mentioned but she's still there, originally posted in the tpoh discord, rgb says "fag" but it's okay he's british, this is all speculation but i don't care i want my cousins angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:54:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22743586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isweetmochaa/pseuds/isweetmochaa
Summary: Sometimes, Dial likes to reminisce.
Relationships: Dial & RGB (The Property of Hate)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	hey you, weren't we cousins

At six years old, we were meeting for the first time. He was born in Great Britain; I, the southern U.S.. Perhaps our only similarity was our hair; he had curly blonde locks, I had curly red hair. His family had come to my family’s estate for a family reunion, and so he was seeing the sights of the States for the first time.

At some point, we had wandered off, finding a seat on the shores of a little creek. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I had asked him. He hummed, kicking his feet out into the shallow waters. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “Being an actor seems fun enough, I guess.” The air was silent, save for the trickle of the water, before he turned to me. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” He had asked, and I remember having a similar thinking process as him: splashing my feet in the refreshing water before answering. “I dunno.” I had finally replied. He seemed more or less satisfied with that answer, and we went back to splashing in the creek in peace. 

At twilight, we scampered back to the house, laughing as we tried to outrun the other. “Last one there is a rotten egg!” One of us had called, although these days I forget which one of us. Had it been me, or had it been my cousin? 

I had beat him there, the both of us panting as we regained our breath. I could tell he was a city-boy through and through; he had begun to lose steam a little over half-way to the house. I had poked fun at him, and in retaliation, he gently shoved me, telling me to ‘bug off’. That had started a short push war between us, until our mothers yelled at us to behave. (“Sorry, mum,” he had sheepishly replied. I lightly teased him about it until my mother gave me another reprimanding look.) 

We spent the rest of the week he had together hanging by the creek. What we did there varied, but one constant was that we’d always chase each other home. When he had to go, we hugged. We had begged our parents for “one more day, please?” But they always said no, the ferry back to Britain would leave regardless of if his family was on it or not, and they’d already paid for tickets. In the few hours before he had to leave, we snuck off to our little place by the creek, where we sat and talked about nonsense for a good bit. When we stood up to start heading home, he stuck his hand out, extending his pinkie finger to me. I remember staring at it, so confused, before he sighed and explained. “We’ll meet up again, someday. Pinkie promise.” And so we shook pinkies and chased each other home, begging our respective parents for the last time before we said the last goodbye. He sadly waved goodbye as they drove away, I returning the wave.

To think, that was the beginning of what would’ve been a life-long friendship. 

The next notable family reunion occurred when we were sixteen. Many reunions had happened before it, but they had been relatively normal compared to this one. 

My cousin, who, in the words of my parents and his parents, was “growing to be a fine young man”, was laying on the banks of the creek, eyes closed as he embraced the warm sunlight. “Have you thought about what you’ll be doing when you graduate?” He had asked, flopping an arm over his eyes. I hummed and tapped my foot, looking up towards the branches of the tree I was sitting against. “I’d reckon I’m going into some sort of a speaking job. Maybe a radio host. What about you, cuz?” 

He made a weird sort of disgruntled noise, sitting up and sighing. “I’ll be going to acting school as soon as I graduate.” Was his reply, staring into the clear waters. 

“You don’t sound particularly happy ‘bout that.”

“It will be exciting, once I actually begin my career.” 

We remained silent for a few more minutes before I brought up a topic that we hadn’t touched since we were eight. “...Do ya reckon your folks would let you stay a little longer this time around?” I asked, I remember him shooting his head up to stare at me, a dumbfounded expression on his face. “Do I reckon- dearest cousin, I can’t stay any longer than what we have planned for the reunion. I have to play rehearsals to attend! Lines to rehearse!” 

That’s when I first got the feeling that we were headed for different lives. But I had swallowed my hurt, and gave him an understanding smile. “Ah, nevermind then. If that’s what you gotta do, that’s what you gotta do. I understand.” He smiled at me as he began to stand up, and, seeming to have gotten an idea, he grinned at me. “Last one to the house is a rotten egg!” He had called over his shoulder as he ran the familiar path from our spot back to the place I called home. I scrambled to my feet, shouting as I ran to catch up to him. “Hey now- that’s just not fair!” 

That time around, I was the rotten egg. My cousin teased me relentlessly about it, putting on an imitation southern accent as he boasted about how a ‘city-boy’ beat him. I punched his shoulder, to which he laughed and continued to eat dinner. Our parents watched and just shook their heads, turning their heads and talking with our grandparents. We stayed up late into the night, talking quietly about girls, music, films, whatever caught our attention. But the future wasn’t brought up again by either party. 

I remember the first family reunion he hosted. He was in his late 20s at the time, and while it was mainly for our other cousins, it was partially also for ourselves and our parents. We snuck onto the roof of the ‘flat’, as he called it, where he offered me a smoke. He nudged me, chuckling, repeating “A fag or two never hurt anybody,” until I caved and lit one, pressing it to my lips. We stared at the night sky, legs dangling over the edge, in complete silence, until he was the one to break it. “Reminds me of when we were kids, doesn’t it? Sitting, staring at the night sky, talking about whatever our minds fancied.” He pressed his cigarette to his lips and took a drag, exhaling the smoke in a little puff. “Sort of miss those days of mindless pleasure, don’t you?” I didn’t answer for a few moments, exhaling my own drag and watching the smoke disappear with my own eyes. “Yeah, I reckon I do. Though there’s something inherently interesting about keepin with the flow as it goes onwards, don’t’cha know?” 

He hummed his agreement, flicking his cigarette butt off the edge of the roof. We sat in silence for a few minutes, him flicking his lighter on and off, me finishing the cigarette off. 

“How’d ya like your job so far, cuz?” The question caught him off guard, I could tell by the way his posture briefly stiffened. He quickly relaxed his posture, though, smoothing it over like he’d never reacted the way he had. “It’s going, you know? Not really anything more than a paper boy, but I know they’ll see my potential soon.” His voice sounded self-assured and confident, but if you really listened, like I had learned to do, you could hear that he wasn’t sure. 

That uncertainty should’ve been my first hint as to the event that would happen a few years later.

Before I could call him out, however, he looked at me, giving a side grin and leaning back on the roof. “How’s your job going, cousin?” It was my turn for an unexpected question, coughing as I blatantly ignored his cocky grin. “It’s nothing, really- I just host a speaking segment at a popular enough radio station,” I had responded, rubbing the back of my neck sheepishly. That started a conversation and, sitting there on the roof, staring at the stars as I talked about mindless things with my cousin, it really made me feel sixteen again.

I didn’t really hear anything about his job until he was in his early 30s (32, perhaps?). A coworker was gossiping about how a young stud over in England had his face seared in an acting accident. I didn’t think anything of it until a few days later, when I received a letter from my cousin over in England. I opened it, and when I had finished reading its contents, I had immediately booked a flight to England.

He was the young stud who had his face seared, and when he opened the door, the left side of his face was covered in bandages. I hugged him, despite being a good few inches taller. “...Good to see you too, cousin.” He eventually bumbled out, gently pushing me off of his body. I slipped inside the door, dropping my luggage beside it as I followed him to his couch. We sat in a stiff silence for a few minutes, my muscles tensed as he sipped at his tea. Eventually, he set the cup down, sighing. “I suppose you’ll be wanting the details, then?” He asked, and I stiffly nodded. He let out another sigh, leaning back in his seat. “It was nothing big, really. There’s a scene where a girl hits the protagonist with an iron, and the girl happened to actually hit my face.” He closed his eyes, yet another sigh escaping his lips. This one sounded different however, sounding almost more... defeated. “It’s not their fault if it took them a few minutes to realize that I had crumpled to the ground in real pain, and wasn’t just acting.” I felt my blood boil, and words were tumbling out of my mouth before I could even process them. “That’s bullshit, cuz! Are you-” He cut me off with a glare, raising a finger to shush me. “I’ve accepted this, dearest cousin. Perhaps you should as well. 

That should've been my second clue as to what he'd do only a year later. 

But I, unfortunately, didn't pay attention. I only argued with him some more on what he should do before storming out, booking a ferry back home. It was cheaper, anyway. 

One would think that they would be 50, maybe 60 even, before they were standing at their cousin's casket. But there I was, attending my cousin's funeral at the prime age of 34. He'd gone out in a dramatic flare, having jumped off a bridge. The body, complete with a waterlogged suit, were recovered only hours later. His eyes were closed, blonde hair framing his face in a way most men could only dream of. Even that burn scar that was believed to be the main reason for his suicide barely did anything to hinder his beauty, and its for that I found myself tearing up. I remember purposely sitting as far from the casket as I could, not wanting to have to risk seeing the face that could of just as easily been sleeping.

I had managed to keep all of my tears down, only letting them go once I was in comfort of what used to have been his apartment. It wasn't fair, that he had been fired instead of the one who inflicted his injury. It wasn't fair that nobody else wanted to hire him as an actor. A childhood dream, crushed by a careless actress. 

I stayed in that apartment no longer than two days. It had hurt too much to be there. 

A day I remember clearly had actually been at night. I had been awoken by strange noises, and when I found my kitchen window unlocked and opened, I was concerned that someone had broken in. What I hadn't been expecting was a telly-headed man standing behind me, seemingly equally as shocked as I was. "Who're you?" I hissed, scrabbling to grab a knife. The stranger put his hands up in a "I surrender" pose, which was when I noticed the suit he was wearing. It had been a few years, but I remember clearly what my cousin had been wearing when he was buried, and that looked at awful lot like-

"It's good to see you again, cousin dearest." He grinned, seemingly all too relaxed for the situation. I didn't trust him, asking him who he was. 

"Ah, who I am is something I'm still working out. I do quite like the name 'RGB' though, don't you? Very catchy." He spoke like my cousin, and so I trusted him. To this day I still debate if I should've called myself crazy and gone back to sleep, or have trusted him.

We caught up for a few minutes before he asked me the now age-old question-

"Would you like to be a hero?"

I watch the test bars of his mouth curve into a forced smile, his current Hero looking curiously between us. He seemed to be distrustful of me, and while I'd never say it aloud, never while She was listening, he had good reason to no longer be so fond of me. I know he didn't like me anymore. The cousins from blood, friends for life bond we had achieved was no longer existent. On calmer days, I like to wonder "where did we go wrong? When did we stop being friends?" and the answer is always the same. It wasn't when I became Hero. 

It was when I became Dial.

**Author's Note:**

> i was yelled at by the discord server for this. i hope to hear you yelling as well


End file.
